Page 62 of Bloodwitch
TWENTY-SIX
It all happened so fast once Habim and the soldiers arrived—too fast for Safi to fully comprehend, much less react. The Hell-Bards surrendered. The Hell-Bards were put in chains. And the Hell-Bards were led away.
Then Safi was led away too, by Adders she didn’t know and a blockade of soldiers so dense, she could see nothing beyond. For the rest of the night, she saw no one she knew. No Vaness, no Rokesh, no Habim…
And no Hell-Bards. She had no idea where they’d been taken; she had no idea what was going on.
Once back at the Floating Palace, healers briefly tended her ankle, then her Adder guard had her moving again. Every detail regarding the imperial birthday party the next day had to be reevaluated or rechecked. Apparently, the rebels had entered the Origin Well grounds by a glamoured gap in the northern wall, so Safi now examined everyinchof stone in the palace for signs of similar trickery.
Nothing.
Then she was forced to meet every single soldier, servant, and Adder—women and men Safi had already evaluated. Women and men as frustrated by the whole situation as Safi was. And while she interviewed them, the Adders checked all weapons, all tools, to ensure no iron had been tampered with.
The Adders found nothing, though, and Safi found nothing either.
It was well past midnight by the time she finished and was led to her room. Despite exhaustion tugging at her muscles and eyelids, her thoughts crackled with flame. Everything from the day collided in her mind in one massive, writhing conflagration—the flame hawk, the false soldiers in the woods, the doorway lit by magic.
Habim’s secret message upon the map.
Gods below, Safi wished she could talk to Iz right now. Yet no amount of clutching her Threadstone or imagining her Threadsister’s calm face made her prayers come true. Iseult, wherever she was, could not—or did not want to—dream-walk with Safi again.
At the sound of the third chimes twinkling through her garden doorway, Safi finally gave up trying to reach Iseult. She had books from Vaness’s library; she had gemstones; and she still had a plan that needed finishing.
She cleared off a space on her desk and yanked off her Threadstone. Then after setting down the quartz she’d fiddled with all day, she opened a new book and set to work.Understanding Threadsby Anett det Korelli, translated from Nomatsi into Marstoki, detailed the creation of Threadstones. How Threadwitches bound people’s Threads to stones, so that lovers or family or friends would always be able to find one another. So that they would never lose those they cared for most. And since Threadwitches were bound to the Aether like Safi’s magic, it seemed a logical next try.
Besides, reading about Threadwitches made Safi think of Iseult—and justthinkingof her Threadsister made Safi feel a bit better and made the fires in her mind settle.
She sank into a rhythm at her desk, fingers flipping pages. Heels drumming in time to the katydids outside.Kay-tee-did. Kay-tee-did-did.She even had threads exactly as the book described, and although she could not weave trueThreadsinto these strands as Threadwitches did, shecouldconcentrate on her power. On the warmth that sang within truth. On the claws that shredded within a lie.
Safi even recited the words used by Threadwitches to focus their magic:Bind and bend. Build and blossom. Family fills the heart.
Over and over, she said these words as she plaited Threads of sunset pink.Bind and bend. Build and blossom. Family fills the heart.And she kept on murmuring until at last she’d finished braiding and at last she’d finished coiling the slender weave around her quartz. At a glance, her stone looked no different than the Threadstone Iseult had given her—except for the difference in color. In fact, Safi took great care to ensure hers looked just the same.
Yet all it took was one glance for Safi to know the two rocks werenotidentical. The Threadstone from Iseult looked andfeltalive. Safi’s Truthstone attempt, however, was just an empty hock of stone wrapped in thread.
“No, no,no.” The words whispered out, unbidden, and she knocked the useless quartz aside. Tears prickled behind her eyeballs, and she hated it. Shehatedit, just as she hated this palace and she hated that no one had given her any sodding answers since leaving the Well.
And above all, Safi hated that Iseult was so very far away. With Iseult, Safi was brave. With Iseult, Safi was strong. And with Iseult, Safi was fearless. On her own, though, she was just a girl trapped in another country while unknown enemies tried to kill her.
Grabbing her real, heart-achinglytrueThreadstone, Safi shoved to her feet. Stars flashed across her vision. She’d sat too long, eaten too little. But she ignored them—just as she ignored the whooshing throb in her eardrums. Instead, she stumbled to her doorway and pushed out into the night.
The crow wasn’t there; Safi didn’t know why she’d thought he would be. There was, however, a firefly. It winked beside the telescope. Then it vanished. Then it winked again a few paces away.
When she was growing up, Habim had told Safi that children made wishes upon fireflies, and Safi supposed that if ever there was a time for wishes, it was now. So she scurried over to it, and with a swipe of her hand, caught it from the sky. It landed gently, seemingly unconcerned by her touch.
Please,Safi begged, watching it light up. Then shutter out. Then light up again, a golden flicker that turned the Threadstone still clutchedin her hand to flames.Please, Sir Firefly,she repeated.Wherever Iseult is, just keep her safe.
Iseult did not feel safe.
She might have evaded soldiers, but Leopold fon Cartorra presented an entirely new swath of dangers—dangers she was not accustomed to. She could face swords and pistols, fists and flame without batting an eye. But clever word games and courtier’s masks set her Threadwitch calm to reeling.
Iseult hadn’t wanted to leave Owl alone at the bridge, but she had wanted to let Leopold catch the horses even less. At least Owl had Blueberry to keep her safe. If the prince decided to run off with their steeds, though, then Iseult and Owl would have no transport and, worse, no supplies.
The black gelding had bolted into the forest. The roan mare had followed, and their hooves had thrashed the underbrush and left a clear trail to follow. Leopold led the way, Iseult just behind. Her gaze never left his Threads. Her hand never left the pommel of her cutlass.
Her fingers tapped out a rhythm. Until that movement made her think of Aeduan. Then she stopped.
“There is no way the horses will return to the bridge,” the prince said, tossing a backward glance. “Not so long as that bat remains.”
